Broken Life
by Th Ghst f Slss Frnc
Summary: Jackson has been having a hard time--going from foster home to foster home and been put back with his addict Mom. Now he's in L.A. in a whole other world kind of lifestyle. Yet, he's more messed up than ever. AU. No Crash. Beta'd by Dally2.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, this is my latest Flight 29 Down Fanfic, as you can tell. Dally2 beta'd this and I'd like to give her a big shout out for making everything look so nice and clean-cut. Just so you know I will start each chapter with a song. Well, hopefully. I may run out of ideas, but feel free to suggest songs.

Note: This is an AU (alternate reality) Fanfic. There will be no crash. But, there will be a way for all the characters to meet up. *winks*

Summary: Cody Jackson has just moved to L.A. after a younger couple agreed to foster him. He's new to the scene and isn't quite sure what to expect, but he figures it will be the same as always. But, there is a problem. Something about him is….different. He can tell, but he can't put a name to it. He knows this something has been building for a long time and now….the storm hit. And that storm had incredibly bad timing….

Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I'm not a morning person. Sorry if the summary stinks, I just wrote it down fast so I could post this.

Disclaimer: I do not own Flight 29 Down, Johnny Pacar, banana republic, or Wild Sweet Orange—even if I will hopefully be seeing them play this week.

Claimer: On the other hand, the plot is mine and so are Catherine and Michael. If for some reason you decide to use either, ask first. I don't want knock-offs floating around.

By the way, if you care to be Dr. Houses, you could try and figure out what's wrong with Jackson. I'll give ya a hint: it's what's wrong with me, too.

Write what ya know, right?

I have a friend and when he sings, I cry  
all the memories inside try to rebirth and give me life  
but I can't talk about old times tonight  
'cause round here blue light stays up all the time

It's seven o'clock  
I already feel late  
all the pain from my stress are beating my chest  
about decisions I've had to make  
well I breathe in light  
and I breathe out light  
run my hands through my hair, threw my breath in the air  
oh, I'm so tired of running

When all your bad boys have gone sour  
and you're shivering, cold and alone in a shower  
oh baby that soap won't make you clean  
screaming at Jesus just to let you bleed

It's seven-thirty  
I can smell the candles burning  
I could go to sleep now  
I'll just wait till morning  
when the melodies come and sing me stories  
all the birds that can talk  
no, they're never boring

There's nothing like hearing that girl cry on the receiver  
and your stomach hurts so bad 'cause you think you need her  
so you down that cough syrup  
you love feeling so screwed up  
and you crawl up those steps and read yourself to sleep  
yeah, you crawl up those steps and sing yourself to peace

It's eight o'clock  
she didn't eat today  
yeah, hurting herself has never felt this great  
well you see that green hill, friend  
that's where I'm going to be  
watching glory coming in the form of morning

I was found on that dark hillside  
with a certain painting by my side  
screaming: knock down the house of regret

Knock it down, pave it over  
till you feel younger and younger  
knock it down, pave it over  
till you feel like you can't again  
knock it down, pave it over  
till your heart's warmer and warmer  
knock it down, pave it over  
till you wake up born again

_Wild Sweet Orange, We Have a Cause to be Uneasy, House of Regret (band, album, title)_

**Chapter One: New Beginnings? Uh huh.... **

I sat against the window pane in the den of the new house they'd put me in. My gaze just lingered on the glass as I watched the rain dribble down slowly, collecting together into drops, and then sliding.

"Oh, Cody!"

I blinked, surprised at the exclamation, then looked over my shoulder to find Catherine, the young woman who had picked me, and who had showed me to her husband and had forced him to agree to foster me.

Obviously, all the relationships were rather strained. But I was grateful. This had to be the best foster home I'd lived in--right smack dab in L.A., of all places.

Unfortunately, it all could be snatched from me in two seconds, so I wasn't too hopeful.

"Yeah?" I asked quietly, my voice flat as I watched her.

She was all tense, frozen in place, with her eyes wide, focused on me instead of on the black sweater she'd been about to lay down.

Then Michael came in. He was her husband, and he hated my guts. Of course. Who didn't?

"What did you do?" he asked, in that low, gruff growl of his that made me tense and feel like cowering. He was only about my height and only a little more muscular than me, but he scared the snot out of me.

And, I had no clue why.

Right now, it probably had something to do with the fact that he was glaring me down--blue eyes fiery.

"He didn't do anything, Michael. Calm down," Catherine said soothingly, placing a tiny hand on his upper arm. "He just startled me. I didn't expect him to be home yet."

"Then why is he home?" he asked her, muttering.

She gestured toward me with one hand and then nodded slightly. I almost rolled my eyes at her obviousness. Did she think I was a kid still?

I knew well enough that Michael just didn't like me--that he'd avoid me and blame whatever he could on me. It was just how things worked out sometimes.

"I'm home early because it was a half day," I murmured in response.

I had no idea why it was a half day, but I guessed that it was because of either: a. teachers being lazy, b. it was some holiday I hadn't ever heard of, and teachers took it off because they were lazy, or c. the kids got so annoying that they let them out of class early because the teachers didn't care what their students learned as long as they got paid.

So, basically, it was just teachers being lazy in general.

"Oh," Michael said gruffly before sitting down across from me and flipping on the TV.

It was one of those flat screened ones--like a plasma one or something. I didn't know or care. I didn't watch TV much, especially not football like he had decided to watch.

Hockey was more entertaining. No one around here in sunny California liked ice hockey, though, since there weren't really any teams around here. It was too hot for it, or something stupid like that. I figured that, after being in 110 degree weather, slipping into a stadium that almost made your breath visible would be as nice as a cold pool.

Michael glanced over at me and huffed. I just blinked, unsure of what I had done now.

"Is that all you do? Sit there and space out--looking at nothing?" he asked harshly.

I just blinked again, then stood up out of the alcove I'd been sitting in for the past half hour and shook my arms out, trying to loosen up my taunt muscles. I glanced at both of them: Catherine--who was ignoring me, or just oblivious to me, as she checked a receipt and she went through a few bags with a backwards _B_ and a normal _R_ on it. I shook my head as she pulled out a pair of fancy-looking, artsy jeans from one of them, holding them up to herself. They probably cost about as much as my old apartment's rent. I breathed out through my nose then padded off, heading for my bedroom. I stepped over a squeaky patch of flooring, and then faced my door. I sighed, once again, before I twisted the glass knob and let myself in.

Everything was very basic, as it had been a guest room before, but it still reeked of old money. Everything about the house was older--not newly built. But Catherine had remodeled almost everything, as she had told me one day when I'd hardly been listening.

Of course, they hadn't done much to the guest room, so you could still tell where the faults were: the ancient, wooden headboard, the squeaky, almost orange hardwood flooring that only went down the hallway, etc. But I could just tell the lamps cost a lot and the bedside table was one-of-a-kind. Or I imagined they were. I'd checked a shopping receipt of Catherine's once after she'd left to cook dinner one night--just being curious--and I'd seen about eight hundred dollars spent on clothes.

Honestly, sometimes I was just too curious--too technical. I mean, obviously, at some point, I had stared at the floor for a long time to notice where the dips were and all.

Maybe I'd fallen into the same sort of daze I had when I'd been staring out the window in the living room.

But, anyway, I didn't know where they got the money since they were just in their late twenties, but I figured it came from Catherine's or Michael's parents and not from what they'd accomplished.

I let out a snort--kicking my door closed--as I realized how much time I spent thinking about things that didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was just one rest stop before I plowed on to the next one.

I never stayed anywhere for more than a year, after all.

I plopped down onto my bed: just a mattress on some of those black squares that lifted the bedsprings off the floor. Then I lay back, listening as the bed creaked under me.

I don't think it liked my weight much. One hundred and sixty pounds was too much for

the mismatched contraption.

I just kicked off my sneakers--a pair of old Converse I'd gotten at some point I couldn't

Remember--and just pulled the comforter--a white, fluffy thing--up to my neck, leaning back against the too soft pillows that just oozed out from under my head, somehow almost always ending up on the floor when I slept.

I didn't plan on sleeping right now, though. I just wanted to get away for a little bit--away from Catherine's pitying glances and Michael's scowl.

I looked up, suddenly hyper aware, as I heard a couple of loud, curt knocks on the door. I glanced over at the window and saw that the rain had stopped and that pink tainted the horizon. I sat up in bed, realizing I had managed to fall asleep, which peeved me. I hadn't wanted to. But the sun had been sinking--a massive red ball of fire before--so I hadn't slept for too long, hopefully. But, then, as I sat up too quickly, gold and bronze flashed in my vision. I blinked rapidly, stunned by the colors. What the heck was that? I clutched my head dizzily.

"Cody? Are you all right in there?" Michael's voice seemed annoyed instead of worried, so I quickly collected myself and got to my feet unsteadily.

"Y-yeah. I'm fine," I said unconvincingly, still worried about why I had 'seen stars' or whatever.

Michael let out a huff, like he'd hoped otherwise, and just wretched my door open.

"Well? Come on then. Catherine has dinner ready," he barked.

My eyes widened a little at his tone, and I just nodded briskly before edging past him, going out into the hallway. I hated feeling trapped, and being in that tiny bedroom with only a small stormy window was scaring the daylights out of me, stupidly enough.

"What are we eating?" I asked, sniffing the air.

I hoped that I could at least get him to be decent to me if I was going to be staying here for three or so years. It was possible! I wasn't hopeful, but I wished I could at least hang around someplace until I turned eighteen. Just to have an anchor for a little while, you know?

But--like I kept reminding myself--I had to prepare for the worst (which, more or less, meant I'd be snatched up and be put back with my Mom). I shivered at the thought.

It wasn't Mom. She was insane, but mostly harmless. It was the neighbors and the people she brought over--a bunch of crack-heads--that worried me.

"Spaghetti." Michael eyed me up and down, making me slouch a little. "And you'd better eat it."

"I will," I promised, and I quickly bolted, walking at full-stride and getting into the kitchen as quickly as possible.

"Hey, Cody," Catherine said, looking over her shoulder and beaming at me as she continued to finish up the meal.

Well, I guessed she was. She was standing at the sink, dumping steaming water out of a perforated bowl filled with noodles. Yeah, she was cooking--or doing something that had to do with it.

I wasn't exactly knowledgeably about anything made from scratch. I didn't even know how to work a microwave. I kept wondering to myself what the heck I had been eating all these years, since I didn't seem to know how to do anything but pour myself a bowl of cereal.

I was pretty sure that there was a reason I'd gone from being skin-and-bones to actually looking healthy. But I wasn't sure I had been eating much. I just remembered being sick a lot.

Yeah, if I took that to court, my Mom would flip out. One of her boyfriends would probably stab me to get on her good side for a few more weeks.

"Cody?" Catherine asked me again, a slightly worried look on her face.

I snapped out of my reverie, realizing I'd been staring at the pale, granite counter top for the past five minutes. "Yeah?" I asked finally as Michael came up behind me. I could feel his hulking presence and his eyes burning holes between my shoulder blades. The hairs on the back of my neck raised a little and I felt freaked out.

Jeez, why did the guy always have to do that? Maybe he didn't realize he scared me?

"No. It's '_yes ma'am_', Cody," Michael growled quietly.

"Um, sorry. Yes, ma'am?"

"Nothing. You just seemed out of it. Do you feel bad?" Catherine asked nicely, which broke my heart a little.

Why did she have to be so nice? It made me feel worse.

"No. I'm fine, _ma'am_," I said, enunciating the last part, specially for Michael.

I may not like him because he treats me like the scum of the earth, but, at least, he treated

Catherine well.

"Good. Now go wash up. I'll have everything finished in one second." Catherine dumped the steamy pasta into a deep set bowl, allowing heat to rise off of it, making her face flush and her hair stick to her forehead a bit.

I just nodded, not wanting to say anything that might set Michael off again, and I scurried off. You know, scurrying and trying to stay under the radar would be easier if I hadn't had a growth spurt right after moving in with them. I managed to knock over one of the dining room chairs, which made a loud crash as it fell, after my attempt to slip past.

I sighed, wincing, waiting to hear Michael yelling, but I heard nothing--just Catherine and him talking in loud enough whispers for me to hear as incoherent mumbles.

I put the chair back in place--hoping the spot of scraped off paint on the wall wasn't too noticeable--and I went to wash my hands.

I really hoped no one would notice that.

We'd finished up the meal--and it had been amazing, delicious. Catherine was definitely a good cook, and she liked to cook, which was a plus. Maybe I'd get a few good dinners in me before I was kicked to the curb.

Me, being me, I was currently rinsing off the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, which was new for me even though I tended to help around my house in an attempt to not be always such a burden. I mean I was used to doing dishes, but by hand. I was more or less lost on how to work the dishwasher, which was new--stainless steel.

I scrubbed off the last plate and was about to lean over to put it into the lower dishwasher rack when it slipped right out of my soapy hands and fell.

And, of course, it fell on my foot.

It shattered with a loud crash, and I wondered why I had to be so unlucky when it came to not destroying whatever I touched.

"Cody?!"

I heard Catherine yell from the living room, and I watched as she ran in, looking frantic.

Michael trailed behind her, an almost curious expression on his face.

"Sorry. It slipped...." I trailed off, looking at the broken white shards at my feet.

"That's fine. Wait, are you bleeding?" Catherine asked.

I looked up at her horrified face, then back down.

Huh. I was. My right foot's sock was stained red from blood. A pretty nasty gash was on

my leg and on the side of my ankle.

I wiggled my toes, and they moved, but I still didn't feel pain--more of a tingly sensation.

It didn't feel too bad either.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied with a shrug. It wasn't a big deal. It didn't even sting.

"I'll go get the first-aid kit. You just sit down on one of the bar stools."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I was fine--that it would scab over with no trouble--but she'd already scampered off, so I just sighed and did what she said.

Michael was just watching me, and then shook his head.

"What?" I asked him.

But he just chose to walk off instead of answering, moving to the other side of the kitchen, near the doorway Catherine had gone out of.

I thought about calling him a certain nasty word--just in my head--but I ignored the impulse, opting to just swing my unhurt leg out of boredom.

"Here," Catherine said as she hurried back into the living room, eyes still wide.

"I'm fine," I promised curtly, and then I took the small, plastic white box from her. I looked it over, searching for a clasp, and saw a red cross on it. First aid kits were made to be obvious.

I finally found a clutch at the top and I pressed down until it popped open.

"I could take care of that. Really," she insisted, but I just laid it onto the island that I sat at, and I took out some spray stuff that claimed that it kept wounds clean and didn't sting.

Yeah, right.

I sprayed it all over the wound anyway, and it didn't bother me, of course. Obviously, it was one of those days.

I couldn't feel a thing--well, I could feel that slight tingle in my foot, like it had fallen asleep, almost, but that was about all.

"You'll have to get out any of the shards."

I looked up and gazed at Michael. I blinked at him, surprised he'd even tried to help.

He shrugged. "Well, you'll have to. I don't need to pay a hospital bill because you have an infected wound."

Of course. But, at least he didn't say it quite as gruffly as usual.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Once again, it was raining, and I could hear the rain fall lightly onto the window. A giant tree shielded this part of the house from the heavy, sheets of water that fell much more loudly on the roof. It was rare for California to have so much rain, I figured.

But, who knows? Maybe it rained constantly in this county--this city. I had no clue. I'd been all over California--from the Mexican border and up to Oregon and Washington--but I'd never lived in L.A. before.

I mean, I'd even lived in a few Southern states--shipped off halfway across the country--far away from my Mom. I'd even been in Nebraska.

I sighed softly and just shifted under the covers, then sat up. I rubbed my forehead, wondering why I couldn't manage to drift off for the night.

It was probably because, on top of falling asleep in the middle of the day earlier, through the cracked door (it didn't close quite right, anyway, and it didn't lock either), light kept flashing on the wall--eerie blue from the lightning strikes and other colors from the TV, which was still on in the living room.

I could hear Catherine and Michael talking, even over the thunder and through the thick, plaster walls, but it was mostly garbled.

Eventually, they stopped watching whatever show or movie that had caught their eye among the hundreds of stations their TV had, and they went off to bed. They were still speaking and now--without the muted voices of the actors and actresses--I could hear what they were talking about in quiet voices.

Me.

Of course.

"Cat....I still think that this is a bad idea." Michael's voice rumbled through the thick walls, muted and hard to hear, but his deep voice carried.

I blinked, and swung my feet off of the bed, hissing as the sheets roughly rubbed up against the two scabbed-over gashes, still sensitive.

I crept up to the wall and, like the eve's dropper I obviously was at heart, I pressed my ear against the uneven surface of the plaster wall.

"Michael, he has nowhere else to go! He's troubled, sure, but he isn't a bad kid. Think about how you would turn out in his situation--a bad neighborhood, bad role models, fatherless, and with an addict for a mother." Catherine pleaded softly, her voice so quiet that I barely pieced together her sentences.

"Sure, but he's dangerous. He could hurt you, Cat. He's nothing more than a petty criminal with a twisted past."

I frowned at Michael's comments, but I stopped myself from yelling at him through the wall to shut up.

Because, a. that wouldn't help anything and b. then they'd know I was listening and they wouldn't finish their conversation.

"You know that's not true, Michael. I'm pretty sure he's more scared of us than we are of him. Haven't you noticed how he cowers when you step into the room?"

"What?"

"He does, Michael. You terrify him."

"I highly doubt that."

I clenched one fist, annoyed. I wasn't scared. He just made me nervous--that's all.

And I wouldn't hurt Catherine, either. She was a saint.

"He won't be here long anyway, Michael. He's already fifteen. I just want to give him a few good years--maybe give him what he needs for a better life. You agreed to try fostering kids, Michael."

"Yeah, but I thought you meant _younger_ kids."

"What's the difference? They'd still have their issues. How could they not? They were given up or taken from their parents--ripped up by the roots."

"I know, I know, but....why _him_? He's nothing but trouble. He hardly talks. He barely eats. He just sits around staring at walls! That's not normal."

I could mentally picture Catherine's sharp intake of breath, then her biting her lip.

"Michael, I can't have kids. You know that."

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then why are you so against this? I want to be a mother. I've always wanted children."

"Then we could adopt a baby!" Michael said, almost yelling.

I winced. I didn't try to imagine what Catherine's response to that was.

"Baby, I didn't mean to raise my voice.… I...."

"Let's just get off this topic, okay?"

"I really didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"But you're still unhappy with this arrangement?"

"Well, yeah, but...."

"Then, yes, you did mean it."

Yikes. I'd never heard Catherine mad before. Of course, I hadn't known that she couldn't have kids. I'd thought they just hadn't yet. I'd have to ask her about that because, obviously, Mister Insensitive in there didn't seem to care much about how she felt. I mean, people who just listened and nodded their heads were as good as gold.

I felt my eyes droop from a sudden wave of tiredness, and I yawned, a sound rising from my throat. Ugh. I just couldn't yawn and be quiet at the same time. It was physically impossible for me.

"I really am sorry," Michael said as I heard something move across the floor--a chair maybe.

"I know you are. You just have to understand that I want this. I want to help people. People like Cody don't deserve the life they've been born into. And he really is a good kid."

"I'll trust you on that, I guess. But, if he does anything to you--anything--you tell me, okay?"

"You just undermined yourself."

"I know, but, Cat, I love you. I don't want him treating you badly--verbally or physically."

"And thank goodness for that. I'm glad you're protective of me, but he's a kid. He's only fifteen."

"Fifteen-year-olds can still do plenty and he looks like someone put him on steroids."

"I know, I know. It's just on a trial basis, though. I just feel like I need to do this."

"I'm sorry for what I said before--about adopting a kid and all."

"Don't be. Sometimes I want that, sure. I just want to wait a little longer. I'm only twenty-two."

I blinked, now awake. She was only twenty-two? Dang. I thought she'd at least have to be twenty-six or something like that. Not that she looked old. But she was hardly older than me!

That was just weird. How did someone so young act like a tried-and-true mom--a much better Mom than mine ever was?

"So, then, what are we going to do with him? He's still supposed to be going to school."

"I got him to write up a forum for Hartwell Academy."

"There's no way he's getting in there."

I almost snorted. Yeah, just because I was a street thug, almost constant _A_'s on my tests didn't matter.

I was smart. I could admit to that. I hated school, but I could do my lessons. They were too easy, anyway. But I wasn't dumb enough to try and move up a grade.

I'd be road kill.

After a minute I realized I'd been too lost in my own thoughts to notice what they were saying.

"He was accepted, Michael. He's going on Friday for a half-day so he can check out the school," Catherine informed him.

Wait. What? I hadn't known that. I thought for a minute. Four days? Ugh.

I hated school. Schools were filled with a bunch of idiots.

Plus, this would be a rich school--so preppy kids and wusses would be everywhere. I'd always thought of the phrase "_thrown like a cat to the wolves_". I wasn't sure if it was common, but an old friend had always used it. Luckily, it was backwards for me _now_.

Well, I could hope. I was taller now--not as scrawny. Well, I hadn't been scrawny but, when five guys (or particularity nasty girls) ganged up on you, what could you do?

And, of course, I wouldn't have a bunch of racist blacks throwing rocks at me.

That was a plus.

I decided to stop listening in--starting to feel like a nosy weirdo--and I just blinked sleepily. I yawned, finally getting tired, and I stumbled over to my new bed--hard to see in the dim, grainy light.

I wasn't sure if it was like that for other people, but, at night, it was like an old, black-and-white horror film. Maybe I just had bad night vision.

I sat down heavily on the side of the bed and just pulled myself back.

Maybe I'd sleep.

I could hope....

As I felt myself grow more tired--happy that I actually felt sleepy and not completely wired like I was most nights--I suddenly remembered. Hartwell Academy wasn't just the public school. You had to get a scholarship for it or pay for it month-by-month. It was a private school. I hoped I was in the first category. I didn't want to be a burden for Catherine, who already gave me food to eat and a place to sleep--my two main needs. She could've just sent me to any run-of-the-mill public school, and I still would've been grateful.

Plus, I really doubted this would go well. I really doubted it. I wasn't meant to be around the rich. It just didn't work. It wasn't supposed to work. I muttered a swear word to myself, shifting.

There wasn't a difference between rich and poor kids except for how much money their parents had. It wasn't the kids' money, so I didn't see why it mattered. But I'd learned pretty fast that it did matter for everyone else in the world.

I only counted money you earned yourself, though. I was just weird.

Eventually, I realized that thinking so hard about this was making me more awake, so I just tried to turn off my mind, convincing myself that it couldn't be any worse.

It couldn't be any worse. At least I'd be dealing with a bunch of pampered preps and not dangerous thugs who beat people up for kicks.

I'd gotten lucky when it came to that.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands, and I just tried to make my brain shut off. Why didn't I have a turn off switch? I just never stopped. I was like some robot--on and on and on. My current record of days to go without sleep was three. But, by then, anyone (especially me) looked like death warmed over.

Jeez. I wasn't going to go to sleep, was I? Well, at least I'd slept for like an hour or so earlier.

If my thoughts would just go away, maybe then I could sleep.

I tried to just focus on something else, but I didn't know what to focus on. I decided to choose a song and list the guitar parts, playing them over and over in my head. I couldn't read music at all. I'd figured out basically what to do, anyway.

So, at least, that beat-up, old guitar sitting in the corner had some use. Maybe I could figure out how to actually play it.

I blinked and just closed my eyes, nearly gritting my teeth. This was going nowhere fast….


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Yes, I will admit to the fault of being a horrible author by taking so long to update this, especially when so few stories are being posted in the Flight 29 Down archive. So, yeah. I'll try to update faster...? Luckily, in seven more days (or unluckily if you're me), I'll be done with NaNoWriMo (or at least not be trying to reach 50,000 words of a novel in a month), so I can go back to updating my fanfics more often._

_In other news, you may thank my beta and pre-reader, Dally2, for this chapter-because I might have not posted this if she hadn't given me some input. Also, thanks to my previous reviewers-Kae Shady, f29dwnaddict, leetvfan, and Dally2 herself. I know I'm going against the norm. (is there a norm. for fanfiction?), and straying a bit from the plot of the series itself, but I hope you like it. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Flight 29 Down, or anything else mentioned in this story-unless you count OCs and stuff. But I don't. So, yeah... _

_

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**Chapter Two: Name Tags?**

I woke up to an extremely loud blaring in my ear.

_Lovely... _I thought sarcastically, already more or less awake after my sleepless night.

I never actually fell into true sleep.

I had bad luck.

I opened my eyes and looked around my newfound bedroom, trying to find out what was making that obnoxious sound. My vision was blurred from sleep, though, and that didn't help anything.

_Amazing, you can lose your sight after only sleeping for four . . . three . . . maybe two hours . . ._

Finally, after blinking several times, I managed to notice that an old-fashioned alarm clock was vibrating on the bedside table.

I smacked it with one hand slightly too violently and it shot off the bedside table and landed with a clang. But it shut up, for the moment. I think I may have dented it, just a little bit.

I groaned softly in annoyance and turned over, burying my face in the too fluffy pillows and trying to block out the sunlight, which still managed to seep through the curtains. I could add that to the list of things that make me almost blind in the morning. At least there was solid light, though, and no bars.

I winced. Surprisingly, I wasn't thinking about the toned down kids' jail I'd been sent to a few times, mostly for things that weren't my fault (it was one of my Mother's boyfriend's bright ideas to put cocaine in my school backpack).

With that sentiment, it wouldn't exactly be surprising that the first time I'd been behind bars it was my Mom's fault. Amazingly though, I hadn't even been in jail. It was those frigging storm windows. Double-paned, sealed shut with lead paint, and crossed with bars. I think that was when we'd been living in Florida, with her new boyfriend who had a fondness for Mary Jane. I just shook my head, trying to not dredge up the bad memories.

It really was too bad every time I tried to have a smidgen of emotion those bad memories started creeping on back.

Maybe _if I wasn't such a zombie I'd be more likable._ I thought dully.

Unfortunately, the day for switching back to normalcy had come and gone.

I started having more memories, worse ones, and I clenched the pillow I'd been using to block out the sunlight for a moment, annoyed I was dealing with this today. The weird thing was, nothing was different except going to a new school and I'd done that time and time again. But, at the moment, I felt mad.

_Huh. So maybe I do actually have emotions. _I thought sourly.

I then blinked in surprise, after seeing a white feather out of the corner of my eye. I held the pillow away and saw a hand-sized rip in it. Okay. That was new.

Another broken object I'd have to pay for. Michael was going to be livid, now.

Finally, after I was done thinking about what my punishment might be for causing property damage unintentionally (I decided to pretend the fact I'd had a Hulk moment hadn't happened) and when I was positive the alarm clock was about to start wailing in my ear again, I sat up, heaving myself up to a sitting position on my bed.

_Well, I guess I could consider it _mine_. _

I picked up the dented alarm clock off the floor (it seemed to have been thrown against the wall too many times, though, so maybe it looking like it had a fight with a sledgehammer wasn't my _entire_ fault) and tried to find the off switch. It was a pretty simple thing, but I was a moron—so finally, after it started roaring again, I managed to turn it off.

I muttered a cuss word at it and placed it back onto the bedside table.

What could I say? When I didn't get sleep, I wasn't a morning person, especially when I'd only slept for about four hours or less.

_Oh, the joys of never sleeping. _

I yawned and finally just stepped out of bed. My legs were pretty long so that worked just fine. I rolled my eyes at that random thought and just ran my fingers sleepily through my crazily matted hair.

I started to walk over to my closet, but caught my toe on something and almost managed to do a face-plant, barely catching myself with one hand that was able to grasp the bed.

I had the worst luck.

I hissed quietly, since I'd caught my bad foot. Of course, when didn't you hurt something again that you'd already hurt?

That didn't make much sense either . . .

I shook my foot out and just blundered over to the closet door and yanked it open, pretty annoyed at this point.

Sure, it was Friday and when Monday came along I'd be waking up at six thirty every morning, but when I didn't sleep I didn't want to make up at even eight in the morning—like it was now. 8:12 if the abused alarm clock was correct.

I just sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, something that was quickly becoming a nervous habit of mine. I'd be stuck at that school for two hours.

Sure, sure, that was hardly an eight hour school day, but still. I just didn't want to go. I'd always hated school for a reason. There were fifty-minute lessons, but I could get the same work done in twenty minutes and then I'd be left to twiddle my thumbs or scratch my name into the desk with a manual pencil sharpener.

I just grumbled quietly and pulled out a black dress shirt, which actually seemed vaguely new and not bleached out. I held it up to myself and nodded my assent, which was probably a sign of insanity...

I figured I at least needed to try to fit in. Or, if not fit in, stay out of sight—out of sight, out of mind. If I could just blend in, I'd be fine.

Unfortunately, I didn't have nice pants so I just pulled out a pair of holey, ragged jeans. I'd seen lots of kids with holes in their jeans nowadays, but unlike those, which were meant to be like that, my jeans were roughed-up from just about everything with grass stains galore.

Yeah, blending in was going to be hopeless. I could already see the dress shirts and pencil skirts; the polo's and the plaid shorts.

At least, if I looked a little rough around the edges maybe I'd be left alone.

I could hope, right?

It wasn't that I was afraid of being bullied, not now. The large amount of items I'd broken recently showed I didn't even _know_ my own strength. (Something I could be a little proud of.) But, I didn't want to be ostracized either. Who _wanted_ to be ostracized? Especially if someone thought you were a sociopathetic killer. That had happened one year—wild rumor appeared. They'd been watching too much Death Note, I think.

But, yeah, from my bored musings in the past I'd noticed people were similar to pack animals—like, say, wolves. Lone wolves didn't last long; they tended to starve to death, actually, if the people of Animal Planet knew anything.

Even people, who were, for lack of a better word, scary, were still pack animals. All gangsters and thugs needed other gangsters and thugs to be dirty, filthy rats with, too. I'd tried to win respect again and again, but only once, recently, had I managed to get it, then I'd moved. I was beginning to wonder if the way of life anyone like me lived was even worth it.

_...But, of course, if it wasn't worth it..._ I thought dully, fear dragged back to the forefront of my mind. _Then I'd be better off dead..._

Depressing? Yeah. That didn't mean it wasn't the truth. I wasn't about to pretend living near Hollywood with Catherine and Michael was reality. It wasn't. When I was eighteen, maybe a few months or a year older, I'd be gone. Back to where I'd been taken away from for my own good. It hadn't _mattered_. I was still going to repeat the vicious cycle I'd been born into.

_I'm beginning to feel sick about now. _I thought warily.

Well, at least I won't be having children. I tack on, trying to get myself less looking like some random, depressed druggie. Catherine would flip if I looked both tired and suicidal after all; even though it was a well known fact people who slept more were depressed.

So I wasn't depressed.

I just couldn't figure out who or _what_ I was.

* * *

"Cody! Twenty minutes!"

I blinked in surprise and looked at the door, hearing faint knocks and Catherine's quiet, slightly tired voice.

I blinked again and looked over at the clock. It was 8:29. What had I been doing for the past fifteen minutes?

Right, staring aimlessly at inanimate objects and thinking about stuff I needed to forget about. I needed a hobby. Well, I had the guitar. A guitar I didn't know how to play and had a broken neck. A guitar I'd dumpster-dived for. (Was it dumpster-diving if you found it in a dumpster, but just lifted the item out and cleaned off the rotten egg smell and didn't decide to jump into a heap of trash and go swimming with the cat-sized rats?)

"Yeah, okay!" I yelled back and I grabbed up the clothes and headed for the bathroom.

I hadn't even showered yet.

_Joy._

* * *

I closed the white painted door behind me and left it open, just a crack. Nothing in this house worked quite right, since it was so old. It was a nice house (thanks to Catherine) but still.

Of course, to me any house that wasn't a dumpy trailer, a shot-gun style house, or basically anything with mud for a yard and with the permanent smell of cat urine or nicotine was a great house. So, I was obviously a poor judge.

Anyway, after that one time where I'd gotten stuck in this very bathroom because the hot steam coming from the shower had caused the wood to expand and the door to stick I'd learned to keep doors open if the house was old.

_A science lesson at home, wonderful_, I thought dryly, as I tossed my clothes on the floor. No time for anything else. Michael had quickly instilled that if I didn't keep every inch of the bedroom and bathroom clean I was a dead man. But, I didn't exactly have time for anything else. I'd clean it up once I was back out again.

Maybe Michael just needed lessons on_ not_ being anal?

I grumbled quietly as I threw off my shirt from yesterday—I'd fallen asleep in my clothes again. That tattoo was still there, though. I ran my fingers over it and, yes, it was still scabbed over and nasty. Now I couldn't get my shoulder wet, it was just so stupid. Why did anyone get these on purpose? I looked at the symbol in the mirror for a second later with a frown on my face, then just sighed and went back to getting ready.

* * *

I wiped the steam off the mirror and looked at my reflection. I looked decent enough, not too much like the hoodlum I was. Of course, I had done everything possible to look like the clean-shaven boy-next-door.

I tapped my fingers on the sink edge nervously, and then just walked out of the bathroom, having to pull on the door hard to get out, even if I had preplanned.

I then hurried out into the hallway and I walked into the kitchen. I grinned slightly as I saw the glass of orange juice, cinnamon roll, and scrambled eggs Catherine had set out.

Currently, Catherine was humming to herself as she listened to the radio, tapping her foot to the beat of the music, oblivious to me as she ate her food.

Why was I so happy to see her? I really needed to not be happy to see her, ever. She was my foster Mom. That mean she could get rid of me at any time. I needed to stop getting attached to people in general. I was even beginning to notice Michael's habits and how to avoid him. Obviously, I was getting way too close for comfort.

I sat down across from her and gave her a weak grin, trying to not think about that either, which she returned (brighter, of course), and then I quickly tucked in my food.

I was a teen-aged guy, what could I say? I could eat twice as much as Michael in one sitting. No clue why. He was still bulkier than me; I just ate like a sprinter and stayed with a lack of body fat.

"Cody, slow down or you'll choke," Catherine admonished.

I was surprised at her tone, not having heard anything but gentle rebuffs from her. I looked up, and then noticed the humorous glint in her eyes. I literally almost sighed in relief. _I'm turning into a weakling—just dandy._

"Seriously, you look like a chipmunk," she informed me, a clear teasing lilt to her voice now.

I shrugged and just swallowed down the orange juice in a few quick gulps.

"I'm hungry," I said quickly.

Yeah, maybe not the best retort, but whatever.

Catherine raised an eyebrow at my response. "Okay, but you'll make yourself sick if you eat that fast," she informed me, her voice _too_ polite.

I just nodded and ate slower. I was beginning to wonder what was up with her. Of course, she'd always acted like a freak without her morning coffee; seriously, she did.

"And chew softly, you sound like you're eating ice," she added, smirking.

I narrowed my eyes at her and just stopped. "Is it Pick on People's Eating Habits Day?" I asked dryly.

She just shot me a look, but it was toned down by the fact she still seemed like she was about to laugh. "Don't use that tone with me, mister. And, no, it isn't. But, I really don't think you were ever taught table manners. You eat like a wolf."

"At least I use a fork!" I responded, far too loudly. Catherine's eyes widened and she burst into laughter, almost falling out of her chair. Michael growled loudly from somewhere in the house and we both went quiet, but she still seemed mischievous.

_She's going to get me in so much trouble_, was my first thought.

Maybe it was her time of the month, or something like that I didn't want to truly think about. That might explain it. Or maybe she was just plain nervous. She looked nervous. She looked like how I felt but with that shifty-eyed look I'd learned to lose early on.

* * *

"Do I _really _have to go?" I asked once again, causing Catherine to sigh.

"Yes, Cody, you do. Don't you want to have a chance to know where your classes are and to meet new friends?" she asked me, her light brown hair all in her face as she twisted around to look at me where I sat in the back seat.

Just to note, I had absolutely no leg room back here.

"New friends...?" I asked her, a disbelieving tone to my voice. Had she honestly just said that? Honestly? I wasn't exactly six for crying out loud—closer to sixteen actually.

"Of course," Catherine looked at me, like she couldn't believe I didn't think I'd make friends.

I didn't want to say—when had I _ever _made friends? So I kept quiet, but I was thinking about it.

At the last place (where I'd only stayed for four months) the only girl with the guts to speak to me, a half-and-half named Christen had been beaten to a bloody pulp only a day later. I was beginning to think I was walking bad luck, honestly. She'd had to be hospitalized. She'd been attacked because, well, it was something about her being white trash or hanging out with a honky or something.

_What even _was_ a honky?_

"Cat, sit in your seat right. If we crashed you'd be strangled." Catherine rolled her eyes at Michael's comment but sat back in her seat correctly.

She just put a hand on top of Michael's, whose hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. He calmed down quickly after that, after glancing at her a few times to make sure she wasn't about to try and peer back at me again.

The exchange made me smile a little, mostly out of nervousness but I was glad _some_ people were happy. Even complete opposites like Catherine and Michael.

I started to wonder if maybe, maybe I'd end up like them someday, just with less cash and probably with a few dozen cats as companions but still. I winced. I didn't need to think like that. I really didn't. It would only hurt me later. I didn't even need to start thinking things would get better. In my mind I had a steady job and a house. Yet, without a scholarship I wouldn't be going to a college, which meant no job and no house in this economy. It was rather pathetic I knew that, but this was L.A.

Maybe if I moved somewhere backwater like Alabama, or something, I'd have a better shot. But, I somehow doubted that. I'd just have to deal with more trouble. Wasn't Alabama like one part hick, one part gangbanger, and one part rich-that-spit-on-people, anyway?

I sighed softly and looked out the car's window, bored.

"We're here," Catherine said a few minutes later.

I cringed. I didn't feel like being _here_ today.

I felt gravel churn as Michael drove his black Lexus sedan into a parking spot.

I continued to look out the window, looking down at the gravel-covered asphalt and the painted yellow lines.

"Cody, come on, I'm sure you'll like it. There's a football team, art classes, anything you could want." Catherine prompted.

I just looked at her listlessly. Football...? I didn't like that, for several reasons. Art? I liked to scribble on paper every so often, sure, but I stunk at it and I'd only be ridiculed for the obvious reasons. Maybe I could join the soccer team, or something, though.

My Granddad, when he'd been around, had loved soccer—well, he'd loved fishing, German beer, _and _soccer, about in that order.

Well, that was assuming I'd be here for the season. When even _was_ the season? It was fall now and I had no clue. I'd probably missed it, somehow.

Catherine finally sighed, her eyes sad and glimmering with something I couldn't name. "I know it'll be hard on you, to adapt to all this, but you have to go to school," she said fiercely and I blinked under the intensity of her gaze. When had she started looking at me like that? Jeez. It made me feel the size of one of those, what were they, Smurfs or whatever, on old TV.

I almost snapped that I could just teach myself, that I was already a freak so it wouldn't matter, but I kept my mouth shut.

I mean, that would just make Michael glare at me and threaten to ground me. He didn't take any backtalk.

But, I had done that once, with one foster family—they'd given me the option and their daughter had done it, homeschooled. She had been younger, but I was pretty sure she had been both cooler and smarter than me.

She probably still was.

Unfortunately, she'd had to save me from being beaten up once or twice because guys couldn't leave me alone for a second. It was weird, you'd think if you didn't like someone you'd just avoid them, follow instinct and all, but they'd purposefully goaded me on.

And, by save me, I meant keep me from being tossed in jail for breaking both of the idiots' necks.

I'd been quite violent that year...

I think that's why they gave me the option.

* * *

Finally, after practically being dragged from the car (via threats made by Michael and his freaky glare of doom), I stood at the front desk in the main building. It was this little desk that an uptight-looking girl with a perfectly smooth blonde bun sat at, typing away at a keyboard with unnaturally long red painted nails—it was actually kind of hypnotizing.

"Name?" she asked, smacking on the gum she was chewing.

"Um, Cody Jackson," I responded slowly, unaware she'd even noticed I was there.

"Age...?"

"...Fifteen."

"Hair color...?"

"Can't you see me?" I asked, vaguely annoyed.

She just ignored me. "Hair color...?"

"Light brown?" I honestly didn't know or care.

"Eye color?"

"It changes . . ."

"Eye color?"

"Blue?"

"...Gender?"

I just glowered at her at this point.

"Male," she muttered under her breath, still smacking annoyingly on her pink bubblegum.

...Bad first impression? _Heck_ yeah.

A small little machine I couldn't name made a whirring sound then and a small sheet of paper fell out.

"Here," she said, sounding bored, and she handed me what seemed to be a plain old name tag—with only my name on it.

Why did she need to ask me those questions, anyway? So they could be in that ancient computer of hers?

"Couldn't I just have written my name in sharpie or something?" I asked her, noticing my name written neatly in block letters.

"No."

I huffed and Catherine elbowed me in the side, giving me a "You must behave" look.

"Well, we have to go now. We'll pick you up in two hours, Cody," Catherine said and I just nodded, too peeved to respond.

I really hadn't needed them to even come in, no one had met with them, but I suppose they were just worried as soon as they drove off I'd bolt.

"Um, so where am I supposed to go?"

The honey-blonde girl ignored me. I scowled at her, and then walked off, following the sound of muffled voices, so distorted and muddled up I couldn't pick one from another, except for occasional squeals.

How did girls even get their voices that high . . . ? It was downright creepy.

_And that's not an odd thought, genius._

* * *

I took a deep, long breath, my perfect, stoic mask slipping on, as I heard how truly loud the inside of what I supposed was the gym. I winced at the screams, shouts, and yells echoed even down the hallway, the emptiness allowing it.

I put my hand on the chilly door handle and pulled open one of the two doors.

I peeked in rather nervously, unable to help it and hoping I wasn't showing it. There were tons of kids and I meant that seriously, at least five hundred, maybe a thousand or more kids were packed into the old-sock-smelling gym.

_Holy _freak_! _

"Can I help you?"

I cringed at the nasally voice and I stepped in fully. I looked down slightly at the balding, stout man, whose face was red (from yelling at people to "Shut up!" I'd guess—he looked like that kind of person) and his eyes were narrowed at me.

"Um . . . help me with what?" I stuttered out, unsure of how to respond.

"How old are you?" he asked me and I blinked at him, probably looking like some effing dazed owl. I couldn't help it, though.

I mean...

...Again?

...Really?

"Fifteen," I responded dryly, then poked my name tag, "and yes, I'm supposed to be here."

He seemed rather surprised for some reason, but just nodded. "Go sit over there," he said, pointing at a mostly empty, dreary-looking steel bleacher.

A few kids, who looked extremely bored, sat scattered on it, weirdly quiet apart from the rest of the students who were all clustered in groups and chatting each other up and away from the band pumping bass and the cheerleaders turning and whirling around like tops, well, tops that could flip.

I nodded to the man, who had just started yelling at a boy to sit down, and I just quickly ducked away, padding off towards the bleachers. I felt myself tense as he kept yelling. Men raising their voices always set me on edge nowadays.

It was a learned response.

* * *

I stepped up onto the second level of the specified bleacher and sat down. I felt someone's eyes on me and I looked back to see a Goth-looking girl, with matching long black hair and coal-black eyes, glaring at me.

_Okay then... _

I slouched a little and tried to ignore the girl.

She made that very hard, too. She was tapping her chipped black-painted nails on the metal bleacher.

_About as annoying as that blonde typing... _I shuddered a bit, remembering that sound. Fake nails on a keyboard were like nails scraping down a chalkboard.

I felt someone sit down beside me and I mostly ignored her (or him), as I waited for whatever was going to happen to happen.

Either the principal was going to give some unmemorable speech or we'd be gassed. I was going with the first, since the other was just my twisted imagination at work.

"Hey," a strong voice said and I scowled faintly.

I didn't feel like talking at the moment. Of course, when did I ever exactly?

Very few people didn't get on my nerves.

I finally looked over and saw some Asian-American girl with rusty-brown hair. "Um, hi..."

_That didn't sound like you were an infatuated twelve-year-old..._ I thought sarcastically, wishing I could face-palm without looking like a total fruit loop.

"I'm Abby," she said, without further ado, and stuck a hand out.

I blinked.

"You shake it," she said, as if I were slow.

"I know that," I ground out quietly and shook her hand as fast as I possibly could and pulled away as fast as possible, as well.

"You don't like germs, or something?" the girl asked me, the one called Abby and not the Gothika glaring daggers at me.

I just shrugged, as a lean, tall guy stepped out. He looked like a retired basketball player, all height and no muscle, with darker skin.

What? Most dudes that played basketball...oh never mind...

"Hello, students! I'm Principal Royer," the guy said, with enthusiasm.

I blinked at him. What kind of pills was he even on?

You know maybe I shouldn't consider clear happiness a side effect of drugs. That might help with my perception of people.

I was still expecting him to do jazz hands or something, though.

"He's a really good principal. He took away the dress code, fired some of the worse teachers, and set up a girls' volleyball team," Abby informed me brightly.

If he was on pills, she was smoking Hippie stuff. Or she was just happy as a Hufflepuff.

What? I had nothing better to do then avoid people and watch TV like a slump. You did that when you had to avoid people who may or may not want to attack and kill you—view _Night of the Living Dead_ for details.

"Uh, okay," I leaned back a little, only to have the hard toe of a shoe hit my lower back.

I winced and shifted again.

That Goth girl was getting on my nerves. What was her problem anyway? And why did she have to be wearing metal-tipped boots?

"Isn't that good?" Abby asked me, all brown doe-eyes as she looked at me. She was trying to convert me to becoming a happy-go-lucky idiot teenager. I could tell.

...And that made me scowl a little, as the principal continued on talking about sports and stuff I didn't really care about in the background.

This was just like a prep rally and I seriously disliked those... I mean, why do those things? You just made some people happy and most people absolutely miserable and bored as frick.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I muttered finally.

"You're new, aren't you, Cody?" The girl, Abby, was now twirling a piece of her reddish hair on her finger.

"It's Jackson," I said quickly, used to this.

The name Cody didn't fit me. I only let Catherine and Michael use it because I wanted to be on their good side.

"Oh, you go by your last name? I could never do that. Mine's super long." Abby said, totally ignoring my tone of voice.

Well, you had to give the girl her props. She tried hard to be nice.

"Be quiet, will you two?"

I swear; my eye just twitched. I looked back, to find the owner of the hissing voice, and I saw a pale girl with wild red curls.

"Sorry, Daley," the russet-haired girl said to the more fiery red-head.

_Weird name..._

I'd definitely forget it. I was only good with faces, not names.

"Yeah, whatever, but since when are you the boss of me?" I asked dryly, narrowing my eyes.

I didn't like being ordered around, especially by kids my own age. I mean, I'd had to deal with that...forever. Being bossed and bullied about.

Her extremely light blue eyes widened a little and I was even slightly surprised at how harsh my voice sounded amongst the screaming in the gym, now that I thought about it.

Why weren't those freaks being told to be quiet instead of me? ...Seriously?

"Excuse me?" the red-head asked me finally, bristling.

I just huffed and went back to facing the principal (who was still talking, amazingly enough). What was he talking so much about anyway, something about a debate team or something?

Maybe I should have paid attention more.

Not that it mattered, I planned on learning math, science, English, and history and very little else. Personally, since I lived in America I didn't see why I had to learn how to speak much Spanish.

Of course, I also lived in California—the most backwards, messed state in the U.S.A. (minus, say, a few random places like Alabama and Louisiana where you had to learn Hick and Gangsta, according to one of my previous foster home roomies) so I probably had to learn _more_ Spanish if I wanted to talk to anyone.

Yeah, more Spanish...

As in, not the Spanish of gang tag graffiti.

So far I knew how to say 'blood', 'knife', 'bones', 'danger', and 'guns'. Wasn't I amazing?

Of course, what was really amazing was the fact kids weren't playing Cowboys and Indians (excuse me, Native Americans) anymore. They were now playing cops and cartels.

...Lovely, right?

"And," the principal laughed softly, breaking me out of my oh-so-deep (not) thoughts, "now you all can go to the cafeteria and eat some food. I'm sure you're all tired of hearing me yap."

_...Finally... _

I was already starving, my stomach growling and twisting. Well, it felt like it was being twisted. I actually felt slightly nauseous.

I stood up slowly; as kids bolted out another set of doors which I assumed meant that was where I was supposed to go.

Lemmings! Jump!

"Hey, maybe you can sit with me?"

I blinked at the half-Asian girl's question. "Um...no thanks...I don't think that'd be the best idea..." _I imagine it would be somewhat like appeasing Hitler, actually...you're just going to stab me in the back at some point anyway, kid..._

"Come on, I know you'll like it! You can hang out with my friends, they're very nice," she prompted, while twirling some of her tawny-colored hair with her fingers.

I sighed. "I don't like large groups of people."

"...Oh..."

"Yeah," I muttered, and then walked off, following the other kids.

Truthfully, I was fine around large groups of people. It didn't bother me. But, I still didn't want to sit with anyone, either.

I didn't want to make friends (as if I could _now_).

At about twelve I'd learned it was a pointless thing to do, if you were going to be booted out and end up in a new school system in two months.

I hadn't managed to keep in touch with any of my friends. After realizing my 'situation' most of them just vanished into thin air.

Houdini would've been proud of them.

I winced suddenly, then, as someone stepped on my foot. I turned my glare to a tiny, impish blonde. She was wearing heels that looked like they made her about three inches taller and seemed pointy enough you could stab someone in the neck with them—and she'd stepped on my foot. _Ouch_.

"I'm so, so, so sorry!" she squeaked, her head craned back to look at me.

I rolled my eyes and stomped off. I only became more annoyed, though, at the constant pushing, pulling, and shoving. I was pretty certain some teacher had yelled "Leave in an orderly fashion!" but no one had paid any attention.

And, well, the lady should've gotten a bullhorn first.

In other news, these kids were _still _chatting, yelling, and squealing (which came from small groups of girls seemingly joined at the hip): even as they walked down the narrow, dimmer hallways. I just followed, hoping at least some of these people, who seemed to already know each other, knew where they were going.

I saw some younger kids then, probably freshmen from the looks of terror on their faces, walking shakily beside me. I huffed quietly at the absurdity of all this and one of them jumped.

Were these people really that scary? All I saw were a bunch of fake-looking girls in tight clothes, guys wearing polo shirts and old-guy shoes, and a few people who seemed like underage businessmen. Oh, and one random hippie.

Of course, it was probably me that had them freaking out like cockroaches with light shined on them.

After all, none of them seemed to look anything like me, whatsoever, even in my nicer shirt.

I had bad luck.

"...Right through this way!"

I blinked at the cheerful voice and looked over, seeing the red-head from earlier. I scowled, and then wondered how she'd gotten at the front of the line (if you could call the mass of young people clogging up the hallway a line), since both of us had been sitting on the other side of the gym than the doors that everyone else had gone through.

"Come on, classmates, move it or lose it! You don't want your pizza getting cold," the red-head said loudly, as a darker skinned boy tried to move her out of the way.

I chuckled at her choice of words, making one dark-headed freshmen look at me funny and scuttle away. I mean _classmates_...? I could so see that girl saying 'comrades'. Seriously, I could.

The darker-skinned guy then decided to start hissing some words at her that I couldn't for the life of me hear, even if I was now about six people back. He seemed to be scolding her.

If only the hallways didn't echo like crazy, then maybe I could know what was going on. I wasn't one to eve's drop—well, okay, I was, but only when it had to deal with me, or if I was bored.

Well, I already knew I wasn't a pristine role-model so it probably didn't matter. In comparison to everything else I'd done, at least, spying like a weirdo probably wasn't so bad.

* * *

As I ducked through the opened pair of doors, I was met with the sight of a giant, open place with tons of windows along the sides and a very high ceiling. There were scattered, rectangular, and light-colored tables and about two hundred freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors sat around, already eating and still talking. At least most seemed to have manners, so things were quieter.

I had no idea where all the others had run off to, however...

I looked around, looking for an empty table, and then sat down far away, narrowly avoiding the rusty-haired Asian girl who seemed to be friendly, but I didn't want a friend. Well, maybe. I watched, slowing down my pace, and saw her sit down at a table with a wavy-haired blonde, another Asian girl with raven-colored hair, the dark-skinned guy with the crazy tawny afro, and that red-head with the attitude problem.

Luckily, the Goth girl hadn't followed me and I didn't have to put up with the toes of her boots slamming into my back.

That girl had been _psycho_.

I finally managed to find the beginning of the food line, obviously, since kids were flocking to it and the smell of grease was all in the air. I cut through the line, trying to find an empty table and not at all interested in the burritos and refried beans or greasy, brown-spotted pizza. Yuck. Normally, I liked Mexican food. But, what they were serving was way too scary-looking for me.

I felt something under my foot, then, and heard a shouted "Hey, watch it!"

I looked back and saw a sandy-haired guy wearing a Fedora. He was glaring up at me, being about four inches shorter.

"What?" I asked.

"Well, you're stepping on my foot, Hulk."

I winced at the cold tone and moved my foot. "...Um, sorry...?"

"Whatever, freak."

I let out a hiss of breath as I walked off quickly with that last comment.

_Don't engage! _

I kept repeating that to myself, even as one of his friends (another bozo with an ego bigger than he could handle) shouted something I decided not to hear.

I bumped into a few people as I quickly moved through the hoard of people. I felt closed in, trapped, and it was beginning to get to me.

I sighed, as I finally plopped down onto a bench, far away.

I wasn't sure why I did this—worry over nothing, panic over nothing, stuff like that. I gritted my teeth, annoyed. Recently, it had been even worse; everything made me annoyed—even wrinkles in my shirt.

Yeah. I was turning into that guy, the one on USA or whatever. I just grumbled softly about how I was going to end up in a straight-jacket one of these days (yeah, like that would help my case any), and took out the brown paper bag out of the black backpack I'd been given. I sniffed it and smelled, well, food. Yum... How cliché... Not that I was complaining. Catherine made awesome food, even if I had no idea what it was. I was pretty sure it was also Mexican, but I was pretty sure there were corn husks involved.

_I guess I can eat it...? _

I set it down on the high-polish table top and finally looked around the bustling canteen. I felt my mouth twist into a lopsided grin, as I noted all the cliques. It was so predictable. I could almost claim everything was exactly the same in schools nowadays, no matter where I went. But, this seemed straight out of some teen drama flick. It was hilarious.

There were the athletes, or jocks if you wanted to be rude to people who would break your arm; male football players tossing, guess what, footballs at each other, some soccer players (I think, they looked like it) at the end of the table, looking annoyed with them, a few cheerleaders hanging around (or hanging off some guy's arm), and then there was a small cluster of girls at the very end of the table. They were pretty muscular and their skin was tan—like, truly tan and they didn't look like they'd rolled in fake cheese powder. I figured they must be on the girls' team of some sport I hardly cared about.

They were the closest table to me, actually, and I noticed a girl, one from the table that Abby character had been sitting at, bobbing around that table now, too. She seemed pretty enough, I guess. But, if she liked players (whichever way you used the word in this TV-like place it would probably work), I was nowhere near what she'd like.

I was a washed-up bad-boy that had OCD—not exactly comparable.

Of course, if I wasn't going to "Make friends!" I wasn't going to date, either.

What was the point? I'd just be more messed up and a little more used than before.

I finally looked away from where I'd been staring in dead space long enough that one of the lighter brunette (a pseudo-blonde) cheerleaders started looking at me like I was something out of SAW.

...Well, I think they were cheerleaders, they had ribbons in their hair like two-year-olds so unless that was some weird fashion statement...

An "Um, hey?" broke me out of my mental ramblings and I looked up to see a sleek, darker-skinned brunette looking at me with a smirk.

"Um, hey, yourself," I eyed her suspiciously, and then went back to unpacking my meal.

What did she want, anyway?

"Can I sit here? I asked you three times."

An "Oh, sorry" was all I could offer.

She just rolled her brown eyes and sat down across from me, a paper plate with a slice of greasy pizza plopped in the center. Yuck.

I must've made a face because she raised an eyebrow. She pointed down at her figure, which was nice I guess. "I can cheat once and a while, jerk."

I blinked. Did she think I was looking at_ her_ like that?

"No, no, the pizza just looks nasty."

"Nasty?"

"...Yeah."

For some reason she laughed, before she dabbed at the double-cheese triple-as-likely-to-have-a-heart-attack special with a paper towel.

"Don't worry. Mostly the food is better. We have a salad bar."

"I don't buy food."

"Why not...?" Her eyebrow went higher, almost hidden under her sweeping bangs.

I just shrugged in response, picking at the food I'd gotten, not really caring what it was. It all tasted the same to me. I think my mother had given me a little too much Benadryl for no reason over the years.

I winced. Gah! I didn't need to think of America's Least Wanted Woman today.

The girl just sighed and went back to eating, obviously bored with me already. I thought about saying "Well, you better get used to it, toots" in a sarcastic voice, but then she'd slap me.

I'd also had enough b-slaps to last a lifetime.

Plus, I didn't see why I had to be mean to her for no reason...yeah...

My stomach turned again and I looked back down at my food, deciding I'd better get to eating. I felt so nauseous though I wasn't sure if it was a good idea...

I swallowed down the saliva in my mouth, definitely not from being hungry.

"Hey, you okay? You look a little green. You could have some of my pizza if you don't want..." the girl began to say, and she pushed her plate towards me a bit; but the next thing I knew I was bent over a trash can, puking my guts out, almost literally.

* * *

_A/N: Oh, and, yes, more reviews would be good motivation... Hint, hint. Haha. Oh, and, yes, I ran into adversary2113's fanfics rather late (then he disappeared into thin air, which leads me to believe I scared a parody writer-which is vaguely impossible). I would like him back so...pester him? Idk. Just bored and trying to pwn a four degree __over normal __fever currently...I needed a laugh and re-read one of his 'fics...at some point...in the last few days... _

_Hopefully I sound vaguely sane? Lol. _

_P.S. I know you didn't read this A/N or the previous one. I can tell. ;) Did I catch ya?_

_P.P.S. Yeah, that definitely sounded insane..._


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